Most people see the escort industry through movies or tabloids-glamorous nights, designer dresses, and endless cash. But if you’ve actually lived it in Milan, you know it’s not about the red carpets. It’s about the quiet moments between appointments, the weight of keeping secrets, and the exhaustion of performing warmth when you’re emotionally drained.
It Starts with a Name, Not a Job Title
You don’t walk into a recruitment office and say, ‘I want to be an escort.’ You’re introduced through a friend of a friend. Someone you trust. In Milan, the industry runs on whispers, not ads. A woman in her late twenties, fluent in three languages, with a degree in art history, gets asked if she’d like to earn three times her salary as a companion. No mention of sex. Just dinner, conversation, events. She says yes-not because she’s desperate, but because she’s tired of being underpaid for her intelligence.
The agency doesn’t call them escorts. They’re ‘companion specialists.’ The clients? High-net-worth men-Italian industrialists, Russian investors, American tech executives. They want someone who can quote Dante at a gallery opening, remember their child’s name, and know when to leave the room.
The Dress Code Is a Weapon
There’s no uniform, but there’s a code. You don’t wear logos. You don’t wear anything that screams ‘paid.’ A tailored black dress from a local Milanese seamstress. Shoes that look expensive but are comfortable enough to walk three blocks after midnight. Hair done, but not too perfect. A scent-something subtle, like bergamot and vetiver-that lingers just enough to be remembered.
One client told me, ‘I don’t pay for beauty. I pay for the feeling that you’re not trying to impress me.’ That stuck with me. The goal isn’t to be the most attractive woman in the room. It’s to be the only one who doesn’t act like you’re in a competition.
Work Hours Are Not What You Think
People assume you work nights. You don’t. Most dinners start at 8 p.m., but the prep starts at 1 p.m. You research the client’s recent business moves. You check what exhibitions are open that week. You read the latest issue of Domus and Financial Times because you know they’ll ask about the new Prada store in Hong Kong or the ECB’s latest rate decision.
Weekends are booked solid. Mondays are for rest. Tuesdays are for laundry, massages, and therapy. Wednesdays are for networking-with other companions, not clients. We meet at a quiet café near Brera. No names. Just stories. One woman lost her apartment after her ex found out. Another had to change her phone number after a client’s wife tracked her down.
The Emotional Labor Is the Real Cost
You learn to smile when you’re tired. To nod when you’re bored. To say ‘I understand’ when you don’t. One client, a Swiss banker, would cry every Thursday after dinner. He never asked for comfort. He just needed someone to sit there while he talked about his divorce, his father’s death, his fear of being forgotten. You don’t give advice. You don’t fix it. You just listen. And after he leaves, you sit on your balcony in Navigli and cry too.
Therapy isn’t optional. It’s mandatory. Agencies require it. Not because they care about you-they don’t. But because a breakdown costs them money. And you? You go because if you don’t, you start forgetting who you are when you’re not performing.
The Money Is Real. The Freedom Is Not
Yes, you can buy a car. Yes, you can move into a studio in Porta Venezia. Yes, you can pay off your student loans in six months. But freedom? That’s an illusion.
You can’t post on social media. Not even a vacation photo. One client found a woman’s Instagram and showed her a screenshot of her at a beach in Sardinia. ‘You told me you were in Milan that week,’ he said. She lost her contract. No warning. No severance.
You can’t date. Not seriously. You can’t tell anyone where you work. Even your family. Your mother thinks you’re a freelance art consultant. Your brother thinks you’re saving for grad school. You lie because you love them. And because you know they’d never understand.
The Rules Are Unwritten But Absolute
You never say no to a client’s request unless it’s illegal. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s strange. One man asked me to wear his late wife’s necklace during dinner. I did. I didn’t ask why. I just made sure it was returned the next day, cleaned and polished.
You never give out your personal number. You never accept gifts beyond a bottle of wine or a book. You never stay overnight unless it’s pre-arranged. You never talk about other clients. Even in therapy. You sign NDAs that are longer than your lease.
The agency takes 40%. That’s standard. They handle bookings, vet clients, and cover your taxes. You don’t have to file anything. But you don’t own your schedule. You’re on call 24/7. If a client cancels at 11 p.m., you get a call at 11:05 asking if you’re free tomorrow at 7 a.m.
Why Milan? Why Not Rome or Paris?
Milan is colder than Rome. Quieter than Paris. Less touristy, more serious. The clients here aren’t looking for romance. They’re looking for competence. A woman who can navigate a boardroom dinner like she’s been in one her whole life. Who knows which fork to use, which wine to pair, and when to change the subject.
The city doesn’t care who you are. It only cares what you bring to the table. And in Milan, that’s exactly what you’re paid for-not your body, not your looks, but your mind.
What Happens When You Leave?
Most don’t stay long. Three years is the average. Some leave for marriage. Others for grad school. A few disappear into the countryside with a lump sum and a new name.
I left last spring. I used my savings to open a small gallery in Bergamo. I show emerging Italian artists. I still get the occasional call. A former client. He just wanted to say thank you. He said I was the only person who ever listened to him without trying to fix him.
I didn’t say anything. I just hung up.
Some days, I still wear the black dress. Not for work. Just because it makes me feel like I’m still me.
It’s Not About the Sex
Let’s be clear: sex isn’t the point. Not here. Not in Milan. Not for the women who do this well. The clients who pay €1,500 an hour don’t want a hooker. They want a mirror. Someone who reflects their intelligence, their taste, their loneliness. Someone who doesn’t flinch when they say something cruel. Someone who remembers their favorite book, even if they’ve never mentioned it before.
The women who thrive in this world aren’t the ones who look the most beautiful. They’re the ones who listen the most deeply.
